


Days Like These

by sable_tyger (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sable_tyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's raining in London. Watson recalls a day very much like it that occurred almost four years ago, on his last case with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like These

His leg still aches on days like these, even almost forty years after he left part of himself behind in Afghanistan.

The sky is gray and lies low over the city, curling around the buildings and roads like a cat tucking its tail beneath its chin. The clouds hover full and weary with rain; it is sure to begin falling before nightfall, though the air is so cold that the sun may as well have already set. The mood of London matches that of the weather. People duck their heads and hurry from place to place with their wraps clutched tightly about them, not looking left or right as if they fear to make eye contact with anyone else; perhaps they simply want to reach home before the rain starts.

The Great War ended not four months ago, after lasting four long years. John Watson leans back against his seat, listening to the rough, coughing engine of the black automobile he's riding in. His driver does not glance at him. It has been four years since the start of the Great War, and nearly that long since his last case with Sherlock Holmes in 1915.

It had been a day very much like this one.

\---

**March 2, 1915**   
_"Watson, my good man." Holmes flashes him an achingly brilliant smile that Watson is hard-pressed to avoid returning. "I've another case, if you're interested in joining me one last time. For old times' sake."_

_Watson cannot remember how many times he's joined Holmes "one last time," but he's never refused yet and doesn't quite feel like doing so now. "What's the word?"_

_"Oh, nothing all too intriguing," Holmes says, still smiling at him. "Some would say commonplace."_

_"And yet as you've told me many times, Holmes, the common crimes are the most strange and difficult to solve."_

_"Spot on, dear Watson," Holmes says, and he spreads the newspaper on the table in front of them to show Watson what case he's found. Outside, the rain washes down the windows in sheets, and Watson stretches uncomfortably._

_"Your leg again?" Holmes asks, glancing sideways at him._

_Watson cannot help but sigh. "Only when it rains."_

__

\---

"Have a destination in mind yet, sir?"

Watson glances at the driver and realizes they've been driving aimlessly around London for twenty minutes, and he still has yet to give the driver a destination.

"You do know you'll still have to pay, even if you never tell me where you're going?"

Watson laughs slightly. "I'm not planning on skipping out on you," he says. "I'm simply trying to observe the city."

\---

**later that day, March 2, 1915**   
_"For this case, Watson, we shall have to observe our dear city very closely, to be sure we don't miss a single clue." Holmes wraps his arm around Watson's waist as they amble together down the street._

_"And why on earth should there be clues just scattered across London?"_

_"Oh, you never know," Holmes says, "and you never will if you don't keep your eyes open."_

_"I don't believe our man would leave traces of his crime lying around London."_

_"You never know, you never know," Holmes repeats, casting his gaze around the square keenly. "Recall the facts for me?"_

_Watson sighs, but smiles, too. "3,000 pounds worth of money stolen from a young couple's home at 17 Fountain Road. No trace of the burglar besides that of his footprints in the mud underneath their oak tree and a piece of paper found on the scene signed 'Yours truly,' which the couple says they don't understand."_

_"Which the couple claims they don't understand," Holmes corrects. "And the burglar?"_

_"Small and of a slight build, if the footprint is any indication, though the dirt was soft and might not be the most reliable source."_

_"Indeed, indeed. But did you not pick up the most important clue of all, Watson?"_

_If he weren't used to such behavior on Holmes' part, he would have been irritated; instead, he is only intrigued. "What is that, Holmes?"_

_He laughs. "Why, the burglar was a woman."_

_  
  
_

_\---_

 _  
  
_

__"You owe me twelve pounds by now, sir," the driver says, and it seems he is growing uncomfortable.

Watson gives in and says, "Head towards Highgate, then."

The driver throws him a slightly surprised and uneasy look but does as he is told. Watson turns to look at the window and is just in time to see the rain start pouring from the sky.

\---

**the evening of March 2, 1915**

_"Are you sure you should be doing this, Holmes?"_

_"'This,' what?" Holmes has his pipe clenched between his teeth, and the words come out rather muffled. His hair and clothes are in complete disarray. They have spent the entire day tracking down their burglar._

_"Why, taking this case of course."_

_"Trust me, Watson," Holmes says, and with a victorious grin he manages to jimmy open the lock, "I know what I'm doing."_

_He doesn't trust anyone as much as he trusts Holmes, so he falls quiet despite further misgivings._

__

_\---_

 _  
_

__Watson thinks of Baker Street as they drive through London, passing people running into their houses to escape the rain. He hopes he hasn't left the stove on; there's no one else who will take care of it, after all. He's always had to make certain everything was in order.

"You heard of that new law?" the driver says offhandedly. "Letting women vote?"

Watson nods.

"Never thought I'd see the day." The driver cracks open the window and spits his tobacco into the street. "Not that I have anything against women or anything like that. Just doesn't seem right."

Watson makes a noncommittal noise deep in his throat and remembers his late wife, who most certainly was more qualified than most everyone he knows to have a say in government affairs.

Thinking about Mary has long since been painful. Thirty-some years is a long time to let go of someone, and he's had more than enough practice in that lately. "Here you are, sir," the driver says. "The cemetery."

Watson departs, but before he shuts the door the driver calls out, "Sir! Don't forget your instrument!" and points at the case lying in the seat beside the one Watson has just vacated.

\---

**the morning of March 3, 1915**   
_"We should have caught her by now," Holmes says, and he looks almost irate that they haven't._

_Watson laughs. "She's the only one who's ever gotten away from you, isn't she?"_

_Holmes casts him a scathing glance. "This isn't Adler we're tracking," he says. "She's been dead for four months."_

_"And you're sure of that, Holmes? Have you thought, perhaps, that the note reading 'Yours truly' left at 17 Fountain Road wasn't meant for that couple, but for you?"_

_Holmes' eyes widen, and suddenly Watson can see everything falling into place. "That damn witch. I can't believe I didn't realize it was her."_

_Watson laughs again and puts one hand on his shoulder. It is one of the only times he's ever managed to deduce something before Holmes, and he quite enjoys the moment. "Oh, Sherlock old boy. You're slower than you used to be."_

_An ugly look arrests Holmes' features for a split second, then fades away to something like shock. "I'm sorry to say that you're quite right, Doctor. We must be getting back to Baker Street."_

_"You don't mean to say—?"_

_"I mean to say." He looks grim. "Most likely she is looking for us. She knows we're following her, after all."_

_They abandon the trail they've been following, which Watson can only assume Holmes has deduced to be a false one, and start their flight back to Baker Street._

__

_\---_

 _  
_

__Mary's grave is close to the front gates and within sight as soon as Watson enters the graveyard. He pauses a moment before her headstone to read the inscription as he has done countless times before.

_Mary Morstan Watson  
born May 12, 1860  
died August 8, 1892_

  


He moves on.

\---

**later that day, March 3, 1915**   
_They stand gazing at their ransacked rooms, their arms crossed behind their backs as they look around._

_"Not a very subtle job," Watson remarks, glancing at the shattered mirror and torn bedsheets._

_"Indeed not." Holmes is quiet, his eyes narrowed. "Not Adler's work at all. Though—"_

_He falls abruptly silent, then crosses the room._

_"Holmes?"_

_"She—or her accomplices, it seems—have stolen from us as well."_

_Watson looks towards the drawer where Holmes has hidden his checkbook and rent money for the past thirty-odd years. It's pulled open and empty. "All the rent money?"_

_"Oh, not just the money. Most of your medical supplies as well, and any trinkets of value." He pauses. "My violin, it would seem, is gone as well."_

_"What? You're certain?"_

_"Quite."_

  


\---

  


"Are you lost, sir?"

The cemetery caretaker—he must be new, as Watson has never seen him before—is looking at Watson a little warily, eyeing the case under his arm.

"No, thank you." Watson tries to smile reassuringly. "I'm simply...observing."

"I see," the new caretaker says, though he looks as if he thinks that this is the strangest thing he's ever heard. Watson does not entirely blame him. It is, after all, raining very hard, and here he is standing in the middle of a graveyard as if there's no place he'd rather be. With a heavy sigh, he leans against his cane, ignoring the pain that flares in his right leg.

"You're sure you don't need help finding something in particular, sir?" The new caretaker does not say it, but Watson can tell he is hoping that Watson is searching for the exit.

"Oh, no, I'm quite sure," Watson says, running his free hand through his soaked hair. The sky has gone charcoal gray.

\---

**the evening of March 3, 1915**   
_Holmes' eyes are charcoal gray and glowing like embers in the dim light. He gazes moodily into nothing, thinking hard. Watson is hesitant to approach him and contents himself with watching silently from the doorway._

_Their rooms are still in shambles. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson is still in shock from the incident; she'd been out at the time of the ransacking. Watson has just spent the past half hour consoling her and is more than ready to rest—neither he nor Holmes is getting any younger, after all—but does not want to disturb Holmes' silent contemplation._

_Holmes sits with his chin resting on his folded hands, his eyes dark and faraway as they always are when he's thinking about a case. He seems almost inhuman at times like these—otherworldly, almost too large and strange a presence to fit with the reality Watson knows._

_Suddenly, the moment breaks, and Holmes look up. When he sees Watson standing in the doorway, his stiff features fall into a warm smile._

_"Are you going to stand there all night?" he asks. "Come to bed."_

  


\---

  


"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" Watson says suddenly, looking over at the caretaker, who chews his bottom lip for a moment before brightening.

"Yeah, 'course I have!" He seems relieved by this topic of conversation. "He's that detective, isn't he?"

"Consulting detective," Watson corrects, and he can hear Holmes whispering it in the back of his head. He smiles slightly.

"Yeah, yeah, that consulting detective," the caretaker says, and he runs one hand over the dark, rough stubble on his chin. "Shame, really, 'bout his death. When was it that he died?"

"March fourth," Watson says quietly. "1915."

\---

**March 4, 1915**   
_They catch up to Miss Adler's men before nightfall; the men are hiding out on the docks and waiting for Adler to return and lead them to safety. Holmes and Watson get there first._

_There's a firefight, not much of which Watson can remember or is even aware of at the time. He spends most of it grappling with one of the larger, angrier looking men, fighting as hard as he can to keep the man from reaching Holmes, who is after all, not as good a shot, and who certainly will not be able to fight off this man in addition to the four he is entangled with now._

_Watson frees his service revolver and, held in a tight, rib-crushing bear hug, manages to shoot the man gripping him in the chest. The man falls forward onto him, gasping, and Watson struggles to extricate himself from the mass of limbs and sweat that is the dying man._

_He turns after kicking the man's arm away from him and realizes that he has not been fast enough, after all, or perhaps he and Holmes have just gotten slow with age and this is inevitability coming for them at last. He kills the four men attacking Holmes, putting one bullet into each of their chests, but he knows before they even hit the floor that he is too late._

_He falls to Holmes' side, his hands moving quickly and with the steadiness that comes with having been a doctor for so many years. There are numerous bullet holes in Holmes' chest; Watson had not even heard the gunshots._

_"Watson," Holmes gasps, blood trickling at the corner of his mouth. Watson stops moving._

_"Yes?" he says, breathlessly._

_Holmes manages a smile; Watson wonders how he does it. His hands are soaked in Holmes' blood. "You are the best friend I have ever known, John," he says, "and I—"_

_But he never manages to finish the thought. Watson is left lying for what feels like years in a pool of his blood, his hands pressed against the bullet holes in Holmes' chest, watching him die and unable to do a single thing about it, as Miss Adler's men have so thoughtfully stolen his medical supplies._

_He remembers himself hours later, still kneeling frozen beside Holmes, his hands pressed against wounds that have long since stopped bleeding. His face is tight as a mask._

_"What on earth—?"_

_Irene Adler stands framed in the doorway, and with a cry Watson draws his revolver and fires his remaining bullet at her._

_It buries itself in the wall next to her head, and she disappears in a whisk of bright-colored skirts._

  


\---

  


The memory of Holmes' death is burned into his memory; unavoidable, completely inescapable, as much a part of him now as his right arm.

He had been inconsolable for weeks directly after Holmes' death. He doesn't remember this. Mrs. Hudson told him of it after the fact. He had been so out of his mind with grief that he even missed the funeral.

"Well, dear Holmes," he says, looking down. "I've come here often enough since then to make up for that, I think." The inscription on the gravestone at his feet is committed to his memory, as well.

_Sherlock Holmes  
born January 6, 1854  
died March 4, 1915_

  


With a long sigh, Watson settles himself at the foot of the headstone, as he has done every month now for nearly four years.

\---

**March-June, 1915**   
_The only thing Watson can remember about this time in his life is reading, over and over, the books in which he recorded every case he's ever worked on with Sherlock Holmes._

_The words are not enough, the memories are too much. They burn and they hurt but he keeps reading. He reads every day from dawn till nightfall, and when he's read all the stories, he reads them again. Many of the passages he commits to memory._

_It is as Holmes had once said—the brain contains only a finite amount of space, and therefore old things are pushed out when new things are learned. One must not learn too many extraneous things for fear of losing something important._

_The only thing important to him is Sherlock Holmes, and so Watson fills his mind with him and nothing else._

  


\---

  


"I never penned our last case together," Watson says to the headstone. He'd feel ridiculous talking to a block of granite if he had not done this many times before. "I must confess, I couldn't bear thinking about it. Not in the months directly after, and then the time never seemed right."

He brushes the rain from his eyes and leans back into the wind. The graveyard is silent, empty. The new caretaker—who unlike the old caretaker, doesn't know Watson by name—has disappeared.

"I wonder how you are," Watson says simply.

\---

**June 13, 1915**   
_Mrs. Hudson looks up as he descends the stairs, and a look of utter shock crosses her features._

_"Doctor!" she says, hurrying to his side. "Are you—? Have you...?"_

_He hasn't been downstairs in months, after all._

_He shrugs her off his shoulder. "If you'd be so kind, Mrs. Hudson," he says in a flat, hollow voice, "I could really do with some tea at the moment."_

_She bustles away, turning her face from him so that he cannot see the tears falling from her eyes._

  


\---

  


"I think I'm ready now, though," Watson says. "To write our final story, now that it has finally come to an end. I've—I've retrieved your stolen violin, you see."

Carefully, he places it on the stone base of the headstone. Its case gleams in the cold rain.

"You'd never believe how I got it," Watson says, "though maybe you would. Irene Adler said she'd been trying to get a hold of me for the past three and a half years. Trouble with the law and all. She said she was horrified that her men took it in the first place and insisted that I return it to you."

He touches the case. "I would have shot her on the spot had she not bound me first. I doubt I shall ever see her again, and I'm not sorry for that."

\---

**June 13, 1915**   
_Mrs. Hudson's hands shake as she prepares Watson's tea. He can hear the cup clattering on the dish._

_He goes over and takes it from her, steadying her hand with his own. Suddenly, she bursts into tears._

_"Oh, John," she says, and clings to him. "Oh, John. Can you believe it?"_

_Still numb, still terribly, achingly empty, Watson shakes his head._

  


\---

  


Watson stretches and gets to his feet, looking down at the place where the remains of Sherlock Holmes lie under the earth. "I miss you more than I can say," he says in a whisper, and his voice is slightly hoarse. He checks himself, takes a breath. "I suppose I always will."

He falls silent, listening to the rain trickling down around him.

"Nothing is the same without you."

And with that, he puts his weight upon his cane and walks away into the downpour.


End file.
